


Dizzy Spell

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Dubious Consent, Fight Sex, First Time, Kink Meme, M/M, Plants, Sex Pollen, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John, smell this flower. It has the most fascinating odour. No, not that one. This one, that’s opening up.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dizzy Spell

This is a fill for [some](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=89637910#t89637910) [sex-pollen](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/4076.html?thread=12007148#t12007148) [prompts](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/12432.html?thread=63889808#t63889808) on the kinkmeme.  
  
 _Unrelated A/N:_ For those of you who just can’t get enough Berlynn Wohl, [I now have a Tumblr](http://berlynn-wohl.tumblr.com/). Follow me for new fic alerts and the occasional gift-ficlet for milestone followers.  
  
  
  
Upon finding himself staying in a new place for a substantial length of time -- or returning to a familiar one, for that matter -- John could not feel entirely comfortable and at home until he was able to do three things in that place (in no particular order): eat a meal, shower, and have a wank.  
  
True, this meant that he had lodged, camped out, and just plain crashed in a good many locations without ever feeling at home there. Being a soldier, comfort was a tertiary desire he’d long ago learned to suppress. But returning to Baker Street this particular day, after a week in Devon, John was determined to enjoy some peace and quiet. He left Sherlock on the first floor and climbed the stairs to his bedroom, where he dropped his duffel bag on the bed and stood quietly for a moment, deciding which of the three aforementioned pursuits he would engage in first. He settled on lunch, and headed for the kitchen.  
  
Sherlock was in there already, digging into his coat and emptying what he found all over the dining table. He was reaching every which way, not only into the obvious hip- and inside-breast-pockets, but into the cuffs and hem, all sorts of secret locations from which he produced a multitude of small and no doubt clandestinely-acquired objects.  
  
A syringe with 20cc’s of something. A film canister. Three packets of seeds. Microscope slides. Corked phials. A curious steel implement which John thought he might have seen twenty years ago when he’d visited the Old Operating Theater.  
  
Watching Sherlock divest himself of his loot, John remarked, “What, no ashtray?”  
  
“Baskerville was a gold mine,” Sherlock said, examining one of the phials under the light.  
  
“So…what are those?” John pointed to a random object, in this case a slide.  
  
“No idea. Looked interesting though.”  
  
“This packet has quite a large DANGER symbol on it…”  
  
“Yes, tedious, isn’t it? Danger signs are put there by people who simply don’t want other people to have fun.”  
  
“What about these seeds?”  
  
“Not a clue. But finding out what seeds are requires only sunlight, water, and patience.”  
  
John looked out the window. “Well, one out of three’s not bad. And the syringe?”  
  
Sherlock waved his arms as if John were excited and needed to be calmed down. “All will be revealed in the fullness of time. Don’t you have a wank, a shower, and a meal to get to?”  
  
“You’re losing your touch. I’m doing the meal first,” was all John had to say as he opened the refrigerator.

 

 *****

 

And so every afternoon, Sherlock inspected the long trays that he’d filled with soil and placed along his bedroom windowsill, to check on the progress of the three sets of seeds he’d planted. It took weeks to determine their nature. The first green shoots that poked through the soil glowed in the dark. Boring. The second cluster of plants seemed boring, as well, until he reached down to examine them and they all started biting his fingers. The third group took the longest to mature; three months. At last, buds appeared at the tip of each yellow-green stalk, and the buds grew so large, the stalks began to droop under their weight.  
  
Sherlock had his lens out one day, examining these plants, when one of them began to twitch. He held perfectly still and watched as its sepal slowly spread open and revealed a set of velvety pink petals, and between them four snow-white filaments, each with a bright yellow anther at the end.  
  
Once the plant had opened completely, and was stilled, Sherlock directed his lens at the anthers, examining the little pollen sacs thereon. The anthers twitched once more, and then burst open, spraying Sherlock with pollen. Bits went up his nose and stung his eyes. He reared back, sneezed, and wiped his face with his sleeve.  
  
Alright, well, he knew not to get quite so close now. Next to the exploding flower, another bud was beginning to quiver.  
  
But Sherlock was having a difficult time, now, focusing on that one. A warm feeling had just begun to spread through his abdomen, making his stomach flip and creating a sort of congested feeling in his genitals. Concentrating on these feelings, he was reminded of a conversation that he’d had with John, some months ago:  
  
“How does one know when they are sexually aroused?” Sherlock asked.  
  
“It’s hard to explain that,” John said after a thoughtful silence. “I suppose you could say it’s like when you need the loo. I mean, it doesn’t feel like that, but it’s your body sending you a message, and you just know exactly what the message means. You don’t need to go to school to learn what your brain is being told. You just get the signal and you know what to do with it.”

Although that answer was not satisfactory at the time, Sherlock now understood that John had been entirely accurate. The urgency that Sherlock felt, the tingling, squirmy feeling, was new to him, but he understood quite clearly what his body was trying to tell him.

“Interesting,” Sherlock said to himself. Then he yelled, “John!” He didn’t mean for the shout to sound so urgent; it just came out that way.

“What is it, what’s going on?” John peeked into the room. Sherlock waved him over, and carefully lifted the tray from the sill. “Smell this flower. It has the most fascinating odour. No, not that one. This one, that’s opening up.”

John leaned in and sniffed tentatively. “I don’t smell anyth-- _augh_!” John had inadvertently angled himself over the flower so that most of the pollen went straight up his nose when it burst. John swiped at his face, scraping away bits of pollen, and snorted to empty his nostrils. Sherlock set the tray back on the windowsill, then braced himself for whatever was to come next.

“That was low,” John scolded. “That was hardly worthy of your...your...” He looked at Sherlock. At his mouth. Never before had he noticed how plush, how fuckable that mouth was. He suddenly wanted to…do something to it. Then he wanted to do that same something to every other part of Sherlock.

Light-headed, not thinking of what he was doing, John reached below his belt…then abruptly stopped. He looked at Sherlock. Those lovely lips were parted. Sherlock was panting; he felt it too. Sherlock’s movements mirrored his own: they were both trying to deal with their newly sensitised flesh responding with shocks of pleasure to every point of contact made with their clothing. And seeing Sherlock struggling with this only made John want to help him by stripping the clothes right off him.

“You knew it was going to do that,” John sputtered, spitting away the last of the pollen. “Well, the joke’s on you, you sod, because now I’m going to fuck you within an inch of your life.” He grabbed Sherlock’s shirt beneath each of the lapels so that he might tear it open.

But after three solid tugs, the shirt remained buttoned.

“Wow,” John said. “These shirts are quite well made, aren’t they?”

“Yes, they’re bespoke. Richard James on Saville Row.”

“Not surprised. You know, you just don’t see quality like that anymore.”

“You do if you know the right people.”

“Mm.” John paused. “What the _fuck_ are we talking about right now.” The insistent throbbing in his groin reminded him of his mission. He managed to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt with a minimum of fumbling, then yanked it down his arms. The moment he was free of the garment, Sherlock grabbed John, and they tumbled onto the bed together.  
  
John wasted no time, pulling at the zip of Sherlock’s trousers while Sherlock grasped at John’s shirt, trying to get it over his head. He was not having much luck. Each time he tried to sit up, something compelled him to fall back onto the mattress. He groaned, “God, John, my prick is so hard, I’m dizzy.”  
  
John got Sherlock’s trousers and boxers off in one go, prying his shoes off as he went, not bothering to untie them, growling with the effort. After flinging the offending garments away, he gripped Sherlock’s cock in both hands; he could feel the blood pumping through it. “Christ, you weren’t kidding,” he breathed.

“I want to fuck you with it.”

“ _Ha_. If you think I’m presenting my arse to you, then that pollen clearly also causes insanity.”

“Then what have you been stripping me naked for?”

“You think I don’t know how to fuck another man?”

“Insufficient data at this time.” Sherlock made one last effort to sit up, struggling forward to pull ineffectively at John’s trousers. “Ugh, fine, I don’t care, just somebody fuck me _some_ how!”

Steadying Sherlock with one hand, John said, “No one is fucking anyone unless we can find something to use as lube.”

Sherlock kicked at the mattress in frustration. “There’s a pot of Vaseline in the bathroom. Hurry!”

John tumbled off the bed and onto the floor, then lurched into the bathroom, shucking his clothes as he went. Soon, Sherlock heard the click of the medicine cabinet being opened, then the clatter as it was slammed shut. Then the sound of the drawers beneath the basin being jerked open and shut. Then the racket of various items falling or being thrown. Finally, a grunt of triumph.  
  
John returned naked, holding the pot of Vaseline. He was glad to have an item to clutch in both hands, as he was so infuriatingly aroused he feared he might claw his own brains out in a frenzy.

“Get on your hands and knees.”

Sherlock was beyond even considering being annoyed at John’s pushiness. Something about his tone of voice was so…persuasive. Or perhaps it was the mesmerising way his rigid cock swayed back and forth as he strode toward the bed.  
  
John scooped one finger into the pot and treated Sherlock to a liberal but hurried application of Vaseline. To economise on time, he put the pot down and used his free hand to coat his own cock simultaneously.

There was no ceremony to it, just aim and shove, and the emphasis was _not_ on aim. The second John got his cock in, he felt like he would come instantly. But he didn’t. The level of ecstasy that for him had always been the ten seconds before orgasm was now the plateau. Once he realised this, he began to fuck with abandon.

Sherlock shrieked and howled. “Be gentle, you sod, I’m a fucking virgin!”

“Not any more you’re not,” John groaned. “You’ve no one to blame but yourself. If you didn’t want this to happen, you should have shot me in the face with a ‘chaste, courtly romance’ flower instead.”

John did slow his stroke a bit, though this only served to inflame him further, as he was now able to focus more closely on the way the crown of his cock caught on the edge of that ring of muscle deep inside Sherlock. “How does that feel?” he said smugly.  
  
“Like an idiot who doesn’t know what he’s doing has his cock in my arse.”

Consumed with lust as he was, John still had an ego to bruise. He was perfectly capable of finding a man’s prostate with his finger. Finding it with his cock was just trickier, was all. But by spreading his knees and changing his angle, he managed to hit it squarely once, a result he detected by observing Sherlock’s sudden reduced ability to remain balanced.

“ _That_ hitting your button? Don’t have anything to say now, do you?”

Sherlock swayed but defied John’s assertion. “Give me a reach-around!” he shouted. “Where are your manners?”

Rolling his eyes, John dutifully obeyed. “Sorry, I never learned arse-bandit etiquette. I didn’t go to Harrow, remember?”  
  
Under the influence of the pollen, fucking was satisfying in the same way as scratching an insect bite: the more John’s cock rubbed Sherlock’s insides, the better it felt, but at the same time, the closer Sherlock was driven to madness by the need for more.

Leaning forward to stroke Sherlock off was hard on John’s knees. After a while, he leaned back to give them a rest, and laying his eyes on Sherlock’s delectable arse, thought of all those bad pornos, and couldn’t help but give one cheek a playful slap. “Mmm, you like that?” he chuckled. It was fun. Those pornos didn’t seem so ridiculous now.

But Sherlock was not pleased. “Stop hitting me!” he shouted, and flung his arm out behind him to grab John’s hand. When he had a sturdy grip, he bent one of the fingers back until John squeaked.

As soon as Sherlock released him, however, John laughed some more and gave Sherlock’s arse another solid smack. This time, when Sherlock reached back, John dodged and gave him another one, savoring the sight of that round cheek jiggling.

Sherlock twisted around, seized John’s arm, and hurtled himself forward, bringing John with him. He tucked his head down and John was propelled over him and into the headboard. John swore and wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s neck, squeezing him in a headlock. Sherlock couldn’t squirm free, so he reared up on his knees, got his feet under him one by one, and flipped himself backwards, body-slamming John and knocking the wind from him. Sherlock flopped to one side and watched with amusement as John clutched his stomach and gasped for breath. 

But John could not be deterred so easily. He heaved himself onto Sherlock, pushing him fully onto his back and spreading Sherlock’s legs with his own. “It’ll take more than that to keep me out of your arse.” His cock sank back inside easily; Sherlock was well loosened and slick, and wasn’t doing anything at this point that could be called resisting.  
  
Now it was Sherlock’s turn to be smug. “It is irresistible, isn’t it,” he murmured. “Much better than all those slags you date and their inferior cunts.”

“To be fair,” John said through gritted teeth, “in a sense when I fuck you I am putting my prick into a cunt.”

John tried to pin Sherlock more firmly beneath him by putting his weight on Sherlock’s shoulders, but they were both so slippery with sweat, his palms slid right off and he collapsed forward, crushing Sherlock. Furious, he ignored Sherlock’s brief but desperate struggle for air and kept fucking, groaning “God, I want to come so badly.” He felt as though he had already been coming continuously for the last ten minutes. He wanted this uncontrollable violence inside him to just surge from him once and for all.

Through the haze of his arousal, a clear, sharp thought struck him, and made him pause. He looked down, gazed deep into Sherlock’s clouded, confused eyes, and whispered:  
  
“Sherlock.”

“Unh.”

“Listen to me. I want you to know something…No matter what happens between us, in the next hour or in the next ten years…you will always, always remember that you let me come in your arse.” And he grinned.

Sherlock grinned back. “And you’ll always remember that you couldn’t make me come first.”

“Once again, you are mistaken.”

“You’d better touch my cock, then,” Sherlock sneered.

“Touch it yourself. Your arms aren’t broken.”  
  
“No thanks to you, you vicious bastard.”  
  
In order to accommodate Sherlock’s two-handed stroke between their bodies, John had to change his angle. This had the unintended effect of hitting Sherlock’s prostate continuously, and driving him into a sudden frenzy, screaming to be fucked and filled. Never had John seen (or heard) someone so desperate for _more_.

Then, Sherlock clutched at John in a panic, his eyes darting about, as though they’d just been plunged into darkness. “John. _John_. Oh God, fuck me there. Fuck me right there. Right-- _Oh_ yes! _Oh!_ ”  
  
At first John did not suspect that Sherlock was actually coming, because the noise he made went on forever and he didn’t think anyone could come for that long. But he had curled in on himself to deliver the sharp thrusts that Sherlock demanded, and thus was in a position to take most of Sherlock’s spunk on his chin and cheek, when it shot out.  
  
Sherlock ceased kicking his legs in the air, and instead wrapped them around John to urge him on, rasping, “ _Now you_.” A pang of fear struck straight down John’s spine. He had wanted to come so badly, but now that he felt that he was about to, he whimpered, “Oh, shit.”  
  
Then all of John’s consciousness turned inward, and he felt _incandescent_ , keenly aware of every hot tremor rolling through him. He could feel his cock spurting, his arsehole clenching, his legs spasming, his toes curling, his pituitary gland gushing oxytocin. It went on for so long that he actually had time to consciously wonder if he might never regain control. He feared that he had come for so long, he’d broken himself.

But eventually, the convulsions wracking his body weakened, and, though he had hardly been able to hear himself screaming in ecstasy moments ago, he was now somewhat embarrassed by the low groan that spilled from his mouth as he crumpled half-onto, half-beside Sherlock. For several minutes, each of his exhalations was accompanied but a weak vocalisation.

He hadn’t felt the slightest bit of fatigue while they’d been at it, but now, even lying still, his abs, hamstrings, quads, and triceps were screaming at him.  
  
“…Sherlock.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“Could you please pinch me to see if I still feel pain? … _Ow_. Ta.”  
  
“Hm?”

“It’s just I feared I might have shot my entire central nervous system out the end of my cock just now.”

“Hm.”

The air was thick with the smell of fucking. John felt positively glutted with sensation, but not…quite… _spent_ yet. He thought out loud: “If we have another go, it will probably kill us.”

“Hm. Probably.”

A dark, vulgar urge spiked in John’s guts, and shocked his exhausted muscles into silence. He gripped his cock, which, in defiance of both God and nature, was rock-hard again already.  
  
“How many more of those plants are there?”  
  
“The packet had twenty seeds in it.”

“Jesus. Well,” John said as he slithered fully on top of Sherlock, “it was nice knowing you, mate.”


End file.
